Blue on Black

Bosch had left her alone in the room for almost an hour. It was time. He knocked once on the door and entered. Rachel Walling looked up from the table. She had the photos spread out across it so she could view them all at once.

He moved into the room and sat down across from her.

“It looks like you like the photos,” he said.

“There isn’t much else here,” she said.

She waved her hand dismissively at the record of his work on the case. He nodded. She was right. He didn’t have jack.

“You see anything? You said you could only give me an hour. I don’t want to—”

“But you knew I would start to look at the photos and I’d get caught up in it. That’s why you called me, Harry.”

“No, I called you because I’m desperate. I know this is the guy. I can put him in close proximity to both women. He was following them. He’s got the history and profile — the guy’s an apex predator. But after that, I’ve got nothing. So what have you got, Rachel? Can you help me or not?”

She dropped her eyes from Bosch’s without answering. She returned her focus to the photos. Denninger’s prior mug shots and prison ID shots from the rape conviction. Denninger posing with a number of prize fish he’d caught in Santa Monica Bay. Denninger on his boat. On the Avalon Pier on Catalina. Photos of his home, inside and out.

“He likes to fish,” she finally said.

“Yeah. That and poker. He told us those are his hobbies.”

“Does he own this boat?”

“Uh-huh. He keeps it down in Marina del Rey on a trailer lot. We were thinking he probably used the boat to dump the bodies. Because we sure haven’t found anything in his house or pickup. Nothing on land.”

“And you searched the boat.”

“Yeah, we searched it. And got nothing. We took it to the police garage and put it in the blackout room. Lumed the whole thing and it glowed like Christmas. Blood everywhere, but it was all fish blood. Not a drop of human blood, not even his own.”

She nodded and picked up the photo taken off the ATM video that showed the first missing woman, Olivia Martz, making a withdrawal. It was taken through a fisheye lens, designed to capture the entire environment around the ATM. Denninger was behind her and to the right, probably never thinking he would be on the film.

“So,” Walling said. “You have his prior record as a sexual predator and then the two videos. The parking garage video puts him in the Grove at the same time Allison Beaumont was there on the day she disappeared, and likewise you have the ATM video of Olivia Martz making a withdrawal that puts him right behind her at the Third Street Promenade. Together this got you probable cause for search warrants, and the searches turned up nothing.”

Bosch nodded in defeat.

“That’s about the size of it.”

“Are you watching Denninger?”

“We have a loose tail on him for now. But that won’t last forever. There’s no overtime left in the budget. That’s why I called you.”

“You should have called Behavioral. You’d get the whole package from them.”

“Yeah, in about six months. How many more girls might go missing by then? Look, Rachel, I know this isn’t your beat anymore, but you’re good at it and you’re fast. That’s why I called you. Now is there anything in all of that that can help me? Your lunch hour’s over.”

She glanced at her watch to confirm the time and picked up one of the photos. It was the one of Denninger on his boat, holding up a fish with both hands. The seas were choppy in the background and the spine of an island rose in the distance. Catalina, probably.

“When I was in Behavioral, a significant number of the predators we encountered had hobbies like hunting or fishing. The percentage was higher than the percentage in the general population. It wasn’t anything we could really quantify, but it was there. It has to do with the personality — the tracking and baiting. And, of course, the killing. I noticed that of the two, the fishermen committed crimes that took more thinking, had more finesse. The hunters committed crimes of stalking and disorganized abduction. The fishermen were smarter, were more organized.”

“Great, so what are you saying, this guy is too smart for us?”

“No, I’m just saying Denninger’s smart. He prepared for the time that he would become the focus of law enforcement. He was ready.”

“Smart enough not to leave any evidence, to drop the bodies over the side and sink ’em so we’d never find ’em.”

“Look at all these photos of the fish he’s caught.”

She moved the photos around on the table, turning them so they would face Bosch.

“Yeah, we got them from him. He had them on a bulletin board in his kitchen. He was proud of them. He said we could have them.”

“Really?”

“He said he had plenty more.”

“He’s touching them.”

“What?”

“In every picture he is holding up the fish or at least touching it in some way.”

Bosch leaned forward over the table. She was right. He hadn’t noticed this — wasn’t sure what it meant.

“Okay,” he said.

“Trophies. He likes trophies. He likes to touch his trophies. To be close.”

“That’s what we were hoping, that he had kept something from the girls and we’d make the link that way. Driver’s license, lock of hair...anything. But like I told you, we got nothing. His place is clean. His pickup is clean. His boat is clean. The garage where he works is clean. He’s Mr. Clean.”

“Sometimes the trophy isn’t a lock of hair. It’s the real thing.”

“You’re saying he kept the bodies? Impossible. We would have found them. We’ve put six hundred hours into this case so far. No bodies. He dumped them in the Pacific and we’ll never find them again.”

Walling nodded, seemingly in agreement.

“I worked more than one case where the bodies were buried and the killer would return to visit. I had another where the bodies were found and buried by their families. Each night of the week the killer would go to a different cemetery to visit his victims. That’s where we caught him. It’s a strong attraction to be with his conquests, his trophies. Maybe it’s the same with water. Maybe he weighted them and they are exactly where he put them in. He visits them on the water.”

“Yeah, but how would he mark the locations? He’d have to—”

Bosch stopped as he realized the answer to his own question. Walling handed him the photo of Denninger smiling at the camera and holding up the fish with two hands.

“The console,” she said.

Bosch studied the photograph. The photo had been taken from the stern by an unknown photographer. The boat was a twenty-eight-foot open fisher, with a center console and a T-top that offered partial shade from the sun. Denninger was standing by the starboard gunwale, holding up his shining trophy fish. Next to him was the console. Scattered across the top in the shelter behind the windshield was a variety of fishing equipment. Bosch saw pliers, thick rubber gloves, a knife, and a plastic tray filled with lures and leaders and hooks. There was also a small electronic device with an LED screen that Bosch had previously dismissed as Denninger’s cell phone.

But now, as he looked at the photograph, Bosch saw that Denninger had his phone clipped to his belt. The device on the console was something else.

“GPS?” he said.

“Looks like it,” Walling said. “Small, handheld, perfect for marking fishing spots.”

“And the locations of bodies if you planned to come back to visit.”

Walling nodded. Adrenaline started to pour into Bosch’s bloodstream. Walling had led him right to a solid break.

“There was no GPS in the possessions we searched,” he said.

“He hid it somewhere,” she said. “He doesn’t need trophies. He just needs his spots. So he can visit the girls.”

Bosch stood up and started pacing in the small room.

“Where could it be?” he said, more to himself than Walling.

“Who took these photos?”

“We don’t know.”

“Well, he’s got at least one fishing partner. I’d start there.”

Bosch nodded.

“Rachel, this is a big help. Thank you.”

“The FBI is always glad to help.”

Bosch pulled his phone and made a call. Jackson picked up immediately.

“Where is he?”

“He’s home. He’s gotta know that we’re watching him. Did your agent pal come up with anything?”

“Yeah, we’re looking for a handheld GPS device. It’s in one of the pictures. He marked his fishing spots and he might have marked the spots where he put the girls. I didn’t see it on any of the search inventories and I know it wasn’t on the boat. You or Tim have any ideas?”

There was a long silence. Bosch heard muffled voices.

“Rick, you there?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here. I was just telling Tim. I think we know where it is.”

Bosch’s eyes darted to Rachel and he held back his first response, which was to ask why the hell the GPS device hadn’t come up before if they had known about it.

“Tell me,” he said instead.

“When we interviewed the guys Denninger plays poker with, a couple of them said they hadn’t seen him since he lost a big pot a couple weeks ago and stormed off.”

“Okay.”

“Well, you know, we asked how much he lost and they told us he lost like six hundred dollars and all his numbers. I said what do you mean, numbers? And they said his fishing spots. They didn’t say anything about a GPS device and it didn’t occur to me that—”

“Who won the pot?”

“I don’t know but we can find out. I’ll start calling those guys back.”

“Do it. We need those numbers. Call me as soon as you have a name.”

Bosch closed the phone and looked at Walling.

“Time to go fishing.”

Bosch felt queasy. The police dive boat was rocking on three-foot rollers. They had been out almost two hours on Santa Monica Bay and were on the seventh location. Denninger’s GPS had twenty-two waypoints stored on it. And it was shaping up to be a long day on rough seas.

Harry studied the blue-black water and waited. The captain had said they were in thirty-two feet of water. After a while he looked back toward the coast and saw the bloom of smog that hovered above the city. He thought about having spent his whole life underneath it, and it only made him feel more ill.

He quickly crossed to the other side of the boat and leaned over the side. The captain had given him specific instructions. If he were to get sick, he had to lean over the port side. That way the current would take his vomit away from the dive zone. He heaved twice, two deep exorcisms from the gut. He watched the current take away what was left of his breakfast.

He felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He wiped his mouth with one hand and pulled the phone with the other.

“Bosch.”

“Harry, are you all right?”

It was Walling.

“Yeah. Just a little seasick.”

“Yes. I wanted to check in. You’re still out there?”

“Unfortunately. We’re on the seventh location. Nothing so far.”

“You sound terrible. Maybe you should go in.”

“No, I’m here till we find them. Or till we don’t.”

“They can look without you. You’re not diving.”

“If they find the girls, I need to be here.” He said it in a tone that ended the debate.

“Okay, Harry. Let me know, all right?”

“I’ll call you.”

By the time they got to the eleventh location, the sun was high, the wind had died away, and both the seas and Bosch’s stomach had calmed. The water had changed color too. It was a lighter blue in the sunlight. More inviting, less severe. Bosch sat on the stern and watched the air bubbles boil to the surface. There were four divers thirty-nine feet down in low-visibility water. The boat captain, the forensics guy, and two deck hands were inside the cabin. Ever since Bosch had gotten sick, they had left him by himself.

Bosch heard splashing and turned to look behind him, off the stern. Two of the divers had surfaced. Between them they were holding up a body wrapped in a plastic tarp and weighted with chains.

Bosch quickly turned back toward the cabin and waved to get the attention of the others. “Hey!”

He then moved to the gunwale door. Before he could open it, one of the deck hands did. Bosch stepped back and watched as the two divers made their grim delivery. The man from forensics followed their progress with a video camera.

The deck hands grabbed the package by the chains and pulled it aboard, sliding it across the deck. It was grim duty, and water slopped over their shoes.

Olivia or Allison? Bosch thought.

Just as the question ran through his mind, the other two divers surfaced off the stern. They too carried a package of plastic and chains and moved with it toward the gunwale door.

The first two divers backed away from the boat rather than attempt to climb aboard. That was when Bosch knew that Deninger had put more than two bodies into the water here. He went to the corner of the stern and called out to them.

“How many?”

One diver removed his respirator and called back, holding up an open hand.

“Five more coming up.”

Bosch just nodded and pulled out his phone to start making calls.

Jackson answered right away.

“Where’s Denninger?”

“In the house. You find the girls?”

“Looks like it. We’ve got seven bodies. We’re going to be here awhile.”

“Holy Christ!”

“We’ll probably have to check all the other spots too.”

“Should we take him down?”

Bosch thought for a moment. The location had come from the GPS device that Denninger had lost in a poker game. There were gaps in the evidence line, but it still strongly pointed the finger of guilt at Denninger. Even if the recovered bodies did not include those of Olivia Martz and Allison Beaumont, they would make a case against Denninger.

Another detective or a prosecutor might move more cautiously. Keep the surveillance on the suspect, recover all the bodies, and work the evidence until it tightly wrapped around their man. But Bosch couldn’t see giving Denninger another minute of freedom.

“Yeah,” he said. “Take the bastard down.”

“You got it.”

“Call me when you’re five by five.”

Bosch closed the phone and then reopened it. He needed to alert the medical examiner’s office that he had a multiple-homicide case and that investigators would need to meet the police boat at the dock. But first he called Rachel Walling back. He needed to tell her that her read on the file and photos had led to the break that blew the case wide open. He needed to thank her again.

As he waited for her to answer, the sun went behind a cloud and the water turned dark again. It was a cold blue on black, and it would always remind Bosch of death.